


are we forgiven?

by makemelovely



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dreams, F/F, Redemption, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24194239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makemelovely/pseuds/makemelovely
Summary: Catra digs a grave.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	are we forgiven?

The sky above Catra is as blue as Adora’s eyes, the grass soft beneath her body, the wind gently blowing over Catra’s fur, the touch as tender as a kiss without teeth. Adora lays beside her, her chatter another facet of the wind, another way to touch her with affection instead of disdain. She talks about anything but the matter at hand.

Namely, the shovel in Catra’s hand, the dirt beneath her claws, and the hole sitting beside Catra, six feet deep marking it a grave. She had spent all afternoon digging it, muttering curses and wiping away sweat and what she pretends aren’t tears. Her eyes shiny and her arms aching.

Catra’s glad to be done with it. Now, all she has to do is rest.

Adora’s voice makes it easy to do that, her stories tilting and shifting with the breeze, gentle until it’s not, soothing until it’s pressure on a wound she had thought was healed. A bruise, and a hand pressing insistently against it.

Catra lets their elbows touch, and she pretends it doesn’t hurt. At the very least, it doesn’t hurt as much.

She hopes it doesn’t hurt as much.

Sometimes, the edges of Catra’s vision will turn white before darkening completely, crackles of electricity and an itch beneath the skin that she can’t scratch, the scrape of claw against skin, the sense of wrongness that is inherent in every move she makes. She’ll blink and the sky will be dark, bright pinpoints of light beaming down at them. Stars, Adora calls them.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Adora asks, her voice a pleasant hum in the night. “We spent our whole lives without stars. I can’t imagine that. Can you?” She could be making casual conversation, but Catra knows she isn’t. Adora fidgets, scratching absently at her wrist, desperate for any kind of movement to distract from the grave beside them.

_ I never needed the stars,  _ Catra thinks.  _ I had you. _

“No.” She says instead. “I can’t imagine it.”

The war inside of Catra’s body has quieted, tension leaving her body in melting waves of exhaustion and grief. The grief gets tangled in the anger, the blue burning with the red until the only thing left is purple, the kind of shade that belongs beneath the eyes of a tired soldier with a lifetime of defeat at their fingertips. Catra thinks maybe it’s a shade that belongs to her, one that she wears well. For now, though, her war is quiet. Peaceful. Manageable. She’s grateful for the break, and the shovel clutched tightly in her fingers indicates it’s a peace she’s earned.

Adora babbles beside her, voice steady despite the frequent changes of pitch. She was always a story teller, her eyes bright and her voice brimming with potential, vibrating with all the worlds Adora sees in her mind, the images crystal clear. Clear enough to convey to Catra, but not quite clear enough to visit, to escape to.

Catra imagines Adora asking her why, why she’s so angry, but Adora never does. Catra wants to tell her that the life they almost had is rotting beneath her claws, embedded in her skin and muscle and bone. That she thinks of Adora every moment of every day, that everything she did was because of her. Because she left, and Catra keeps remembering every second of their time together, every joke and birthday celebrated silently, giggling to themselves until Shadow Weaver warns them to be quiet. Catra wants to tell Adora that sometimes she turns to tell her something, and realizes too late that she’s gone.

Catra wants to tell Adora she’s furious, that there’s something clawing up her insides, scraping against her ribcage and sneaking pieces of Catra’s heart away until all she’s left with is an empty, aching shell.

Catra wants to tell Adora a lot of things, but she never does. Can’t bring herself to let the words spill out, can’t bear to hear what Adora will say. She’s been waiting for Adora’s rejection her whole life, wondering what the final straw would be and when Adora would cut her loses and leave her. Another example of Shadow Weaver screwing Catra up completely, convincing her that the reason Adora kept her around was because she was useful. One day, Catra would no longer be a tool, and Adora would leave.

And she had. Adora left, and maybe if Catra had been someone else, she’d have seen the hand Adora was holding out for her. But she was Catra, and Adora was Adora, so when she left Catra was left alone with a warning come to pass and a resentment boiling to mask the hurt she felt.

Part of Catra feels like she can’t leave the past behind, can’t forget the good times and can’t let go of the bad times.

Catra looks down, a shovel in one hand, the other hand transformed. She’s seven years old again, chasing Adora and messing with Octavia and wreaking havoc. Her claws are tiny, and Catra flexes her fingers. Some day, she will grow up, and her claws will tear and scratch and maim. Some day, she will grow up, and she will be a weapon.

Catra looks at her hand, and she looks at the shovel.  _ Some day,  _ she thinks.

Adora chatters beside her, voice as soothing as a tidal wave crashing down over her. Catra looks at her hand, and she looks at the shovel. This is an easy decision.

The tip of the shovel breaks earth easily, sifting through the dirt. She tosses it away, over and over again, the movements repetitive as Adora rambles about something Catra doesn’t really care about. She barely recognizes the names flowing freely from her mouth, fondness finding a home in Adora’s expression. “Are you going to help me or what?” Catra growls out about two hours in, one foot pressing the shovel’s tip into the dirt.

Adora’s mouth falls comically closed, but the expression on her face is unusual, and it makes Catra uneasy. “No, I can’t. This is something you have to do yourself.” Her voice is serious, her eyes even more so. Catra’s mouth goes dry.

She nods, turning back to the dirt and the shovel and the grave. Adora talks beside her, and Catra pretends she doesn’t notice how blurry her hands are, going fuzzy and breaking up into static if Catra tries to focus on them.

She doesn’t know how long she spent digging, but eventually the hole is six feet deep, the grave wide and welcoming.

“It’s done.” Catra announces, weary from her hard work.

Adora stands up, climbing into an upright position. She almost steps on a daisy, but Catra blinks and the daisy is gone. “Are you ready?” She asks, touching Catra’s shoulder.

Catra melts into the touch, and the ache inside her chest disappears, if only for a moment. “I’m ready.” The dirt is cool against her fur, and the earth is welcoming. It’s deep, but Catra can feel the phantom of sunlight against her eyelashes, warming her face as she tips her head upwards.

A view of space is the sight Catra wakes up to, a vastness echoing around the ship like a bad joke, one she can’t escape from. She shakes the last of her sleep away, her dream ebbing at her consciousness, centered at the forefront of her mind. The seat is cold beneath her, the metal having barely warmed due to her body heat during her nap. She bites down on her lower lip, glancing first around her, and then at her hands. Her claws shine in the light, and she remembers how easily they scraped through skin, marring unblemished skin and how red blood looks as it’s spilt. She knows the damage she can do with them, the hurt she can cause. The hurt she  _ has  _ caused. She remembers all of it. Still, she remembers her past and her dream and how the two collide.

Catra sheathes her claws.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!! my tumblr is @makemelovely and my twitter is @taramarkcv. title from a richard siken poem


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